


My Knife to Your Throat

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [21]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, PWP, Smut, fluff if you look closely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 05:36:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1254874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in the woods of Ithilien, it is evening.</p><p>read the tags.<br/>kind of a sequel to A New Game, but doesn't matter at all if you haven't read it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Knife to Your Throat

**Author's Note:**

> there's a moment that looks like dub-con. but - it really isn't.
> 
> (don't quite know where this came from, am a bit embarrassed about it, but.....)

Barefooted, I make no sound as I approach him, and he, kneeling and intent on his fire, has no idea I am there. Until he feels my knife at his throat.

Instantly he is still. I can hear his sudden intake of breath, and I wonder what he thinks. My heart is beating fast, but I keep my knife and voice steady as I say,

“What’s this? A dwarf, caught off his guard? In my woods?”

Slowly he turns, my knife keeping its place on his throat, and as he looks up to meet my eyes, I raise one brow questioningly.

“Your woods, elf?” he asks, smiling, “I heard this land belonged to Gondor.”

“Not these woods,” I answer, knife still pricking him, “these are mine, and I rule here,” and I lick my lips, and still meeting his eyes, I add, “Do not think I would not hurt you, dwarf – it would be my pleasure.” But as I speak, he rises, and involuntarily I step back to keep my distance – and as I step he launches himself. Even as his weight unbalances me and throws me onto my back with him astride me, he seizes my right wrist in one strong hand and slams it against the ground, again and again until I drop my knife. It is quickly tossed aside and then the hand is back, holding my wrist, while his other hand is pressing my left arm down into the forest floor.

“Not so quick that time, elf-princeling,” he says. I twist under him, trying to throw him off, and he laughs. “Caught you. Haven’t I? Now, what shall I do with you, pretty elf?”

But I am not surrendering just yet. I twist and buck under him, trying to throw him off, but his weight easily holds me. I hear myself growl and try again to dislodge him, this time by bringing my legs up – but all this does is to bring his face down closer to mine. Close enough that I can grab his beard in my teeth and pull at it, getting a grunt of pain for my effort – but as I smile in triumph, I lose my hold and the beard is jerked away. 

“Right, elf,” he says, from between gritted teeth, “want to play rough?” and his mouth descends on my neck, biting, sucking – painfully intense. I can feel the bruises forming, feel the skin break, and oh, it feels so good as his teeth work on me, the pain is pulling me into him.

Almost, I melt under him, almost I moan with pleasure – but I will not. Not this time. Instead I twist again, distracting him long enough that I can reach upwards to bite him, to burrow through that thick hair and bite and scratch with teeth at his neck in my turn.

Again he gives that low guttural groan, and he brings my right hand up above my head to meet my left – and I realise he can easily hold both my wrists in one of his hands, realise I am unable to do anything about it, and the very thought makes me shiver – as his other hand is free to roam over me. Through my thin tunic he flicks at my nipples, making me hiss, and then his hand moves on down, to where, trapped between his weight and my aching hardness, he can begin to unlace my leggings, even as I continue to bite at him.

Still pressing my wrists into the ground, once I am undone he reaches inside and grips me firmly. I cannot stop myself, I gasp, and as I release his neck he turns his head swiftly and bites at my ear. I jerk under him, pushing up into his hand, feeling his teeth in my ear-point, trying not to howl with pleasure. And oh this is – so much, I have not the words. He is biting and sucking as he worked my neck, but on my ear, oh my ear, oh it feels so, so good. I only realise I am biting my own lip to keep quiet when I feel the blood run down my chin. I hiss, and at the same moment he lets go my ear and moves his head to look at me. Our faces are so close that I can see his pupils dilate further with desire as he notices the scarlet running from where my tooth digs into my lip; he leans to lick it away and then looking down into my eyes, speaks again;

“Oh elf, you are loving this. Can’t get enough,” and as I blink and lick my lips in response, still too dazed with lust to find words, he leans back, sitting on his haunches astride my legs. Still holding my wrists, he pulls me up with him, forcing my hands behind my head and my head down so that my mouth is in easy reach of his. 

Our lips meet, and for a moment there is a sweet gentleness, but then he is biting at my lip, worrying it between his sharp teeth, and I hear again that feral growl I did not know I could voice. The hand that was on my wrists is in my hair, pulling and holding, nails almost scratching at my scalp, and oh how good, how much that sensation is. He is pulling at my hair, twisting his hand in it, I can feel my braids loosening as he clutches and pulls, and oh I am undone, I want to whimper, to moan, to scream, but I will not, I will not. Not this time. My hands that are now free are scrabbling frantically at his lacings, undoing him, wanting to hold him even as he is still holding me tight in his other hand – but not quite tight enough.

He lets go of my lip, and as I bite back at his mouth, he groans, and now he is pushing up into my hand, he is desperate too. Eyes meet, and we know what we need – my hands leave go of him and I am pulling at my leggings, trying to get them off me, and he raises himself onto his own knees so I can wriggle more easily, leaving go of me for a moment to free himself fully and then pull my leggings down far enough that I can buck myself out of them, clutching, clawing, biting at him as I do.

His hand still in my hair, he brings my head back down to touch the ground, bending my body into an arch with his weight resting on me, heavy for a moment as he moves his legs between mine, and then as my shoulders touch the forest floor I wrap my legs around his waist and I am pushing against him as best I can, eager for what I hope is coming next. I am right. Swiftly, urgently, one finger is in me, then another, a third and I am biting, clutching at him as he leans on me, his face so close to mine, snarling; “now, want, need,” and I can feel he is tempted to laugh – I am not like this, this is not me – but he is not that tempted, he would rather keep biting back at me, and then the fingers are gone. 

Our eyes meet again, and I know I must look as desperate as he does, as wild, as feral, as wanting, and then he is thrusting into me, so hard, so fierce, the angle perfect, and I am pushing myself further onto him, holding him to me with my legs, clutching with my hands, biting at him. His hand is working at my hair, the other hand below my back now, supporting my body as I writhe, holding me to him with all his strength.

“Love you. My elf, you are mine, mine,” he gasps out, and as though the words are the final push to take me over the edge, I come, clenching around him, bringing him with me as I scream out my love for him.

 

“Game over.” I say, and I feel him smile against me.And as we collapse, exhausted, he pulls me into my accustomed resting place, head tucked onto his chest, his arms holding me, legs tangled together. Gently he kisses my nose, and strokes my bitten lip, neck and ear, and I caress the marks on him – which fortunately are mostly hidden by his beard, since he will not heal elf-fast, and I think we are supposed to be at some serious, tedious meeting with Faramir tomorrow – in fact, I hazily remember, that is why we are out in these woods, journeying to somewhere. But in this twilight, by this fire, nothing else matters, but he and I.

“Legolas, love,” he says, obviously he has been thinking, “you never cease to surprise me. But – what was your plan? Had I not disarmed you, what were you going to do – I would like to know so I can look forward to the return journey?”

My ears flush, and I wonder if he can see in the firelight,

“Do you know, Gimli-nin, it hadn’t even occurred to me to think about it?”

And after a stunned pause, our laughter bubbles up into the night-air.


End file.
